


The Marriage Law Job

by bigsunglasses



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Marriage Law Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsunglasses/pseuds/bigsunglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sophie and Nate cleansed Europe of vampires. Getting married might prove the more difficult task...</p><p>AU: vampires, history, the Marriage Law challenge ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to somebraveapollo for (a) encouragement, (b) enthusiasm, (c) betaing. All remaining errors my own!

> THE PATRIOTIC MARRIAGE ACT 1815
> 
> (1) All unmarried women over eighteen of child-bearing age are required to make matches with the remaining men in Great Britain after the devastations of war, in order to repopulate the country and eventually Europe.
> 
> (2) Women are excused from this requirement if they already have at least two living children.
> 
> (3) Men and women may apply for exceptions on an individual basis due to religion or communicable disease.
> 
> (4) Unmarried individuals by the end of the year will be matched together by their local magistrate's office.
> 
> (5) If the matches arranged in point (4) are refused, individuals will be sentenced to up to five years in prison or hard labour work for the good of the nation.

*

 

That July morning of 1815, Sophie Devereaux, Duchess of Hanover in her own right as a reward for her service to her country, was in a really bad mood. 

To be fair, she had been in a bad or at least tense mood almost continuously for four years, since assuming her current position of power. Damien Napoleon Moreau the Great Vampire, the terrible war, the death or turning of most of Europe's population ... So many men had died, in the war's first decade, that women had finally been permitted to step into important political roles. As the Prime Minister of Great Britain, she had successfully created the strategy that led to Damien Napoleon Moreau's downfall and the reclamation of Europe.

But it had come at a price. And Sophie kept discovering that the price wasn't nearly paid yet, even though the war was done.

"This is ridiculous," she snapped, shredding an untouched piece of cake to crumbs on the table before her.

"No … it's really not," said her favourite crypotographer and smartarse. 

Alec Hardison had turned up at her house last year, loudly resisting being turned away by her servants, and had showed her some intercepted correspondence of hers ... coded correspondence. Or rather, it had been coded before he'd been at it.

She'd recruited him on the spot. And was absolutely regretting it now. The bastard.

"It _is_ ," she insisted, glaring.

Alec tugged uncomfortably at his collar and held up his hands in surrender. "Whoah, don't give me the evil look, Duchess," he said. "You're scary when you do that. Look, if even the King is following the new law, you need to as well - "

That struck her pet peeve. "The King," Sophie said explosively, abandoning her annihilation of the cake in favour of slamming her hands on the table, "is marrying Lady Conyngham, now so _fortuitously_ widowed - "

"Yes,” he nodded, “I'm still trying to find out if His Maj sent her husband to the Irish front." 

" - a match that is only _barely_ tolerable - "

"She's a nob, isn't she?" Alec protested. “It's not like any of Europe's princesses survived the war.”

Sophie stood up and began to pace around the her flower-filled drawing room (so much nicer than the stuffy Whitehall offices). Her main concern about her monarch's marriage was that someone else would have more influence over him than she did. But that was, she supposed, the price for refusing to be either his bride or his mistress herself some months ago ...

Grudgingly, she said, "All right, the King's match is acceptable. But _barely_. He's the King, the people are delighted at the prospect of a royal wedding, everyone is still in the habit of thinking the lady is a beauty, she's not yet _quite_ old enough to be past any hope of child-bearing." 

Alec did some pointed coughing, along with a pointed finger. Sophie glared. "If," she said freezingly, "you mean to imply that I, too, am of an age where childbearing is questionable - "

"Let's cut to the chase," said Alec. "You're not thirty five, you're forty one, don't ask me how I know that. The maids, uh, still wash your, uh, your things, you know, your female things, made of cloth, from _that_ time of the month - don't ask me how I know that, either. The maids don't need to be fired. And also, can I remind you that there's a law, which _you_ created. The Patriotic Marriage Act.” He put on a slow, sing-song voice, like he was reading to a child. God, the man could be annoying. “"All unmarried women over eighteen of child-bearing age are required to make matches with the remaining men in Great Britain after the devastations of war, in order to repopulate our country and eventually Europe." It would not look good if you didn't obey your own law, and promptly too. Lead the way!"

Sophie resolved to murder Alec at a later date for his intimate knowledge about her, and instead wailed, "But I'm the Prime Minister! I don't want to get married! I didn't think it would apply to me! Oh, damn it, I should have said "women under forty" in the law!"

Alec stood up, gathering his papers into a shabby leather satchel. "Better hurry up," he said cheerfully. "Or all the good men will be swept off their feet already. Just, uh, some friendly advice."

A sudden idea occurred to her. "Alec, would _you_ \- ?"

"I already got a girl," he said smugly. "She's _gorgeous_. See you later." He waved at her, and at Eliot Spencer, her bodyguard, who was standing in the corner. “See you later too, man, I got a new card game to teach you.”

“Dammit, Hardison, how many times? Don't talk to me while I'm work!” Eliot hissed.

Alec grinned and sauntered out.

Sophie stood up and kicked over her chair, with a muffled scream.

"Your appointment with Lady Carlisle is for now, your Grace," said Eliot. “Your carriage is waiting to take you there.”

"Thank you for reminding me," Sophie said, taking deep breaths to calm down. For a moment she looked him over with suddenly awakened consideration - a richly decorated war hero, pretty easy on the eyes, he didn't talk much - ?

"Which reminds me, I need to give you my notice, your Grace. I'm to marry Lady Carlisle in a fortnight."

Great.

*

"I have just the man for you," said Tara Cole, the widowed Viscountess Carlisle and Minister for Special Affairs, who was draped over a chaise longue in her sunny library wearing an incredibly skimpy dress that Sophie immediately coveted. "Looks like a decrepit Roman Emperor, acts like a drunken sailor, but if you dry him out he's surprisingly intelligent." She flicked a file across the room to Sophie, spinning it like a discus. “Report on the current locations of Moreau's surviving human servants.”

All her allies were betraying and insulting her today. “In what way could you possibly think a decrepit drunk is perfect for me?” Sophie stuffed the report into her portfolio for later, and glared at her friend. 

“I just said! He's intelligent. You'd never cope with a stupid fellow, however attractive. It's not in your nature.”

“All right, I admit that's flattering. Speaking of which … “ Sophie coughed pointedly, then abandoned her snowdrop-patterned teacup: she wasn't thirsty.

Tara smirked, curling her legs up under her. “I don't mind that I'm brighter than my new man. Not that Eliot's an idiot by any means, but … I'm totally more intelligent. Anyway … have you seen his muscles … “ She sighed, happily, then shook her head. “But we need to discuss you. Frankly, being bedded will cheer you up enormously - “

“I'm not gloomy!”

“And you deserve a good marriage after leading us all to victory - “

“I'm already _completely_ happy with my title, lands, money, and public acclaim by the King … “

“And he's called Nathan Ford.”

Sophie thew a cushion at Tara's head. Her friend intercepted it neatly, and began to laugh.

“ _That man_?” 

“You did such a great job bringing the Great Vampire down together. A team made in Heaven!”

Sophie thought back to the previous winter, to the most daring escapade of her life, as she'd acted her heart out (almost literally, in one terrifying episode) pretending to be a French vampire in order to get into Damien Napoleon Moreau's presence. There'd been no one else available willing to risk it, who could also pass as an aristocrat. Nathan Ford (the best spy in Tara's department) had pretended to be her vampire lover. He'd nearly spoiled the act several times by satisfying his alcoholic urges. The illegitimate son of a notorious illegal moneylender, he'd argued with her plans constantly, he'd snored unbelievably loudly and insisted on sharing the bed rather than taking the floor, he'd never had a serious moment except for once … 

“If you only knew,” said Sophie awfully, “just how difficult that man was to work with - “

“I do know,” said Tara pleasantly. “You told me. At length. Also, I _was_ his direct superior, if you remember, until the King gave him Ireland as a duchy and he went off to have fun there … I know _all_ about Nate's insubordination and emotional issues.” Another smirk crossed her face. “I bet you could whip him into shape, though, within marriage. Possibly literally.”

“ _Tara_!”

“It'd be a perfect match. The two great war heroes, beloved by the King, duke and duchess in their own rights, one sort of good-looking, the other absolutely stunning … really, Sophie, you've got a great way with your hair at the moment … “

Sophie stood up. “I have a meeting with the Lord of the Treasury,” she said, patting her hair with dignified smugness. 

“Give Sir James my regards. Would you mind leaving your bodyguard, and taking one of mine? I want to get to know Eliot … a bit better.” Grin.

Sophie took a deep breath, and went to kiss Tara on the cheek. “I hope your marriage turns out well,” she said sincerely. “But if you want _mine_ to turn out well, you won't press Mr Ford - “

“The Duke of Ireland.”

“ - on me anymore.”

Sophie departed, and proceeded to spend the afternoon wrestling budgets with Sir James Sterling. Who was not a war hero, and had in fact spent the entire Vampiric War in America making vast sums of money by running the decontamination-camps that screened all arriving immigrants from Europe and scamming said immigrants of everything they had. Sophie hated him: but she couldn't deny that under his financial guidance (and with her to curb his nastiest schemes), Great Britain was becoming rather more solvent than any post-war country had any right to be.

(She considered him, very briefly, as a husband. But apparently he'd found a fiancee already. Good God, she thought, the law had only been brought into effect three weeks ago. Why was everyone being so efficient?)

*

Alec introduced her to his betrothed that evening, while Sophie was pacing around a salon in Carlton House awaiting an audience with the King. Alec had been given a short audience with the King himself, as thanks for all his hard work in recent months on cryptography and special equipment for spies. It was unlikely that King George had understood anything of what the man had talked about, but Alec was looking pretty happy anyway.

“How do you do, Miss Parker,” nodded Sophie, scanning the girl closely. Very, very beautiful, but not well-dressed, and currently staring at a nearby painting and snorting.

“That's totally a fake. Oh - ” The girl's returned her attention to Sophie. “It's just Parker, your ma'am. Grace. Duchess. Whatever.”

Interesting. “What do you do?”

Parker absently fingered a rather spectacular emerald necklace she was wearing. “Oh … this and that.” She smiled up at Alec.

“Actually,” put in Alec, smiling right back down at his fiancee, “we were wondering if you could give Parker a job… She, uh, she spent most of the war in Europe, I'm sure she's got some good intelligence about isolated surviving communities there … ”

Parker was now balancing on one leg, in a fashion very definitely not acceptable in a royal residence. Sophie observed this doubtfully, then looked at Alec's adoring, doting face and shrugged. “Take her to Lady Carlisle, with a recommendation from me. And do come to take tea with me one day, Parker, I'd like to get to know you better.” She wondered what kind of woman could capture such a cryptography-obsessed, social recluse of a smartarse.

“ _Thank_ you, Duchess, you're the best, you're a star … ” Alec led Parker off towards the door, where they collided with someone, Alec said “oh shit,” and then fled. The door banged heavily behind behind them.

“Howdy, Duchess,” said Nathan Ford, the Duke of Ireland.

Oh no. “The proper mode of address, considering you are not a friend of mine, is _Your Grace_ ,” said Sophie, crossing her arms.

His hair was curling every which way like a baby's. As usual. He was dressed in riding clothes, totally inappropriate if he, too, was aiming to see the King. And - she sniffed. Yes. A definite whiff of something alcoholic.

It had been more than six months, and he looked … better than she had expected.

“I can't deny you're graceful,” said Nate, cheerfully. “And luckily, we're friends.”

“We're not - “

“We killed Moreau together. I think it's safe to say we're friends.” He rummaged in his rather unfresh-looking coat and produced a hip flask.

“Kindly don't drink in my presence, sir.”

He made a toasting gesture in her direction. He drank. He belched – just to annoy her, she was sure, because that week travelling to Paris and the fortnight travelling back through a collapsing France had taught her that, when not snoring or arguing, he was a remarkably quiet person.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

“Lady Carlisle told me I should talk to you.”

“Oh, God.” Sophie spun restlessly around the room, skirts swirling, running her hand across a smooth marble-topped sideboard. “She didn't mention this marriage nonsense, did she - ? Because if she did, I can tell you - ”

The door opened. “The King will see you now, Your Graces,” said a footman.

What, together? This was turning into the worst day ever. Sophie stalked off, making sure to be ahead of Nate. That would teach him his place.

“Nice view,” he murmured, as he followed her into the King's private library.

“I hate you.”

The King, as solidly and fatly as if welded there, was sitting in an armchair. The Marchioness of Conyngham was on his lap, giggling in a manner better suited to a girl twenty-five years her junior. “Sophie!” he exclaimed. “Nate! Excellent, excellent.”

Sophie curtsied. “Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me. Lady Conyngham, how pleasant to see you again.” Whatever her private opinions of the marriage, she knew better than to argue with the mercurial King or treat his beloved coolly. Well-managed, he let her run the country. Ill-managed, he'd interfere abominably. Altogether a great improvement on his insane father, who'd been completely unmanageable and had died two years ago leading a small invasion force into the vampire stronghold of Amsterdam … 

To her surprise, Nate managed a decent bow and greeting, too.

“Your Majesty, I just wanted a quick word about Sir James's latest financial projections - “ Sophie began.

“Later, later.” The King absently slapped Lady Conyngham's buttocks. She squeaked. “Send me a memorandum, Duchess. The reason I wanted to see you both together – that's a devilishly stylish hipflask, man – is to tell you I approve of your match.”

Later, Sophie derived some consolation from the way Nate choked on his drink. In the moment, she considered abandoning her beloved country and fleeing somewhere very remote. Baluchistan, perhaps. Or Kamchatka.

“Our match - “ said Nate, unsteadily. “Er. I - “

“We're not engaged,” said Sophie, loudly. It was always good to spell things out clearly to her respected monarch.

“Nonsense! You two saved our country, it's the obvious thing. Dashing fellow, elegant lady, the only more perfect match is mine.” He kissed Lady Conyngham.

“Sire - “ Sophie and Nate spoke simultaneously.

“Consider it a royal order. You'll deal famously together! Capital idea, your law, Duchess. There'll be a fine crop of babies by this time next year.” He leered at his soon-to-be-wife, and began to squeeze her in soft places.

“Sire, I must protest- “ 

For once, in her distress, Sophie blundered in her handling of the only person in the country more powerful than her.

“It's a royal order! Now shove off, the pair of you, and leave us alone.”

Ingrained instinct made her curtsey, and mutter words of farewell, before following Nate and stalking from the room.

“I wish I'd never thought of that damn law,” she said viciously, crossing the landing towards the stairs. For once she abandoned her ladylike grace. The skirts of her purple evening dress seemed so constraining to her stride.

“What's so wrong with me?”

His tone froze her in her tracks. She turned, staring. His eyes were serious, there was no sign of the hip flask, and he …

He had sounded …

Vulnerable, she thought. He'd sounded vulnerable.


	2. Chapter 2

In the face of his sudden revelation, all her answers – “your quipping and secrecy drive me mad”, “you repeatedly nearly sunk our mission with your alcoholism”, “I caught myself in my own trap with this damn law”, “I don't like being ordered around” – dried up in her mouth.

“You surely don't actually – _want_ to marry me?” she asked, instead, without any thought, incredulity suffusing her voice.

He leaned against the wall nearby, hand fluttering across his pocket, but not withdrawing that flask. “Why wouldn't I?” he said, in that bantering way she'd grown so frustrated with – like he didn't care, bouncing all the problems of emotion and caring onto someone else. The complete opposite of that flash of vulnerability. 

She drew in a deep breath. “You need to be serious. We've just been ordered to marry. PLEASE deal with me honestly.”

“Wealthy, beautiful, intelligent, driven. Aristocratic. Powerful. Influential. Popular. Why wouldn't I want to marry you?”

“You've just described numerous ladies of my acquaintance.”

“They're none of them you.”

“Then explain what makes me unique.”

He looked her over, from head to toe, slowly. Everywhere his gaze fell, she seemed to grow warm. She restrained a shiver, and tried to push away memories of kissing in public in vampire France, as they conned people into believing them lovers … She'd scolded him so much, then, for pushing the pretense too far.

“You conned the Great Vampire,” said Nate, softly. “I don't believe anyone else could have done that. You made him believe you loved him, that you didn't fear him. You made him feel almost human again. You made him trust you, so that he would be alone with you … ”

 _I drank blood_ , she thought. _I watched him kill people._ It had been a mission with a steep, steep price.

“And then you sneaked me into Versailles, and helped me hack him to pieces with the silver axe I had, and then burn his heart, and then scatter his body to the salt oceans.” Nate shook his head. “Like a queen of the old world, claiming her place with the power of life and death.”

Sophie eyed him, fascinated and frightened and flattered. “A queen?” she said. “I'm not one.”

His smile had a hard edge. “Oh, but you are. In all but name.” 

“That's treason,” said Sophie quietly.

“It's truth.”

He was looking at her like … like … She felt suddenly overwhelmed. Not worthy of the expression in his eyes. It seemed serious Nate was even more difficult for her to deal with than sarcastic, rambling Nate. “Come to my house … later this week,” she said, throat dry. “To see my secretary, Miss Martin. She'll make the marriage arrangements.”

As she hurried down the stairs, he called after her, repeating his question: “What's wrong with me?”

 _Everything_ , she thought. 

_Nothing_.

*

She felt too under-slept and disturbed to eat breakfast the next morning. Eliot, who liked lurking in the shadows so much that she'd once tested him for vampirism, had an unusually happy expression on his face. Presumably, getting to “know Lady Carlisle better” yesterday had been a success. She wondered if they'd have a baby, and shook her head over the idea of Tara as a mother to a child who wasn't yet able to talk or fight. Eliot would have to do all the nurturing.

Alec and Parker turned up, just as Sophie threw a napkin over her uneaten eggs and prepared to rise. “Guess what – Lady Carlisle hired Parker!” His expression hadn't changed from yesterday: still doting and infatuated.

“Oh, I'm so glad.” Sophie mustered a smile. Why was everyone happy today? “What for?”

“Let's just say there's a lot of art that we sold to fund the war … that is going to come home. Lady Carlisle sent a memo about it to Sir James, I think. And she's going to debrief Parker about her European intelligence soon tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Sophie

“So now everything's settled, we're getting married this evening!”

Sophie blinked. “Congratulations, Alec. That's … abrupt.” Parker must be really special: Sophie hadn't known Alec to have any romances before, even of the mildest nature.

“We couldn't wait. You'll come, right? Say you'll come!”

Her smile this time was much more natural and warm. “Of course.”

Alec spun to look at Eliot. “You'll be my best man, right?”

“I'm the Duchess's bodyguard, I don't have time - ”

Alec ambled over and got Eliot into a casual headlock. Sophie watched, amused. She knew Eliot liked Alec far too much to hurt him by getting out of the headlock, but on the other hand he was probably dying from the mortification of having to remain in such an amateur grip. “Dammit, Hardison, stop embarassing me,” he hissed.

“You can keep an eye on our Duchess from the altar, all right, man?”

“It's quite all right by me,” Sophie interjected cheerfully.

“Fine. Fine.” His acquiescence got him released: he glared at Hardison, who ruffled his hair. The men devolved into macho posturing, ineffectually hiding how pleased both were feeling.

“So,” said Sophie, “how long have you two known each other, Parker?”

“A few months.”

“I picked his pocket.”

Sophie winced. “Is your hand all right?”

“It was a really amazing bomb,” Parker said enthusiastically. “I've never seen one so small and it hardly made a bump in his wallet at all! I threw it in the Thames when I heard it fizzing. He's been working on ones that don't fizz.”

“Goodness.” A common thief for Hardison … ? Or no: not common. Sophie remembered Parker's opinion of that painting last night, and the mention of art this morning. And the emerald necklace. She eyed the girl with renewed interest. “What were you doing in Europe during the war?”

Parker's eyes glinted. “Do you really want to know?”

“Actually, yes. As Prime Minister, there's never anything that might not be useful knowledge … “

Tara swept into the breakfast-room just then, resplendent in a scarlet outfit that would have been overly gorgeous for a coronation. “Just the people I needed!” she said, paused to give Eliot a quick but thorough kiss, and then swept up to Sophie. “Bad news, my dear. I'd meant to take you this afternoon myself to L'Italiana, my marvellous modiste, to shop for wedding dresses. But there have been developments, you'll have to go by yourself ...”

“What developments?” Sophie asked sharply.

“I'll explain in a minute. Eliot, sweetheart, shut the door and don't let anyone in. You can stay on this side of it, though.” She sent him a dazzling smile. “Alec, you haven't been seeing any chatter in the intercepted correspondence about Moreau's surviving human servants, have you?”

“You know all I know. Which isn't much.”

Tara nodded ruefully, sitting down. “Parker, I'd meant to debrief you tomorrow, but I need your intelligence on the subject now. Is it true Mikel Dayan went out to the East Indies?”

“Macau, actually.”

“Victor Dubenich?”

“Missing, presumed dead.”

“Colin Mason?”

“Imprisoned by the Bey of Tunis.” Sophie's eyes rose at that, and she made a mental note to worry about that at a later date, once Tara had explained what was going on. The idea of Colin Mason's skills in the hands of a power that was not friendly towards Great Britain … 

“Quinn?”

“Missing, presumed dead.”

“If he's not dead,” Eliot commented quietly, “my bet is he'll have gone to South America. Lots of opportunities for a man like him there with so many unstable countries.”

Parker nodded at this assessment, and Tara blew her betrothed a kiss.

“Why are you asking these questions?” Sophie asked, patience exhausted.

“A man was murdered in Portsmouth yesterday. Throat cut, an M on his chest, exsanguinated into a tub.” Tara glanced at Eliot.

“It's a very distinctive style of murder,” he agreed. “I saw it a few times myself.”

Sophie had gone cold. “Moreau's servants' calling card.”

“Damn,” swore Alec, reaching out to clutch Parker's hand. “I feel sick. Moreau's dead! Vampires don't rise from the kind of death YOU dealt, Duchess.”

“We are presuming one of his former servants has arrived in this country?” Sophie asked, not really in any doubt.

“I've sent agents post-haste to Portsmouth to investigate. I'm concerned you could be a target. You and Nate, although his precise role in Moreau's downfall is less well-known. I hope to have more information for you this evening.”

Sophie nodded resignedly. “I'll be particularly careful not to be alone, or in risky places, until you know what's going on. Although … “ She thought of the morning meeting she was already late for. “I've got Blackpoole and Latimer to deal with shortly, I'd quite welcome being assassinated if it would get me away from them.” They were the two most obstructive Members of Parliament and were scheduled for three hours in her diary to complain about how the Marriage Act was going to encourage matches between the classes.

Tara swept Parker and Alec off to her office, and Sophie and Eliot went off to her office, Sophie in a mood of reflective anxiety. She'd spent her youth wheedling her father to reject proposal after proposal for her hand. She'd charmed a good level of education out of smitten young students. As the war dragged on, she'd grieved her family's death then flirted a few hundred votes – how _long_ that had taken – out of Parliament to pass a bill allowing female Members of Parliament. She'd won the love of her constituency's voters. She'd threatened and promised and coaxed her way to the leadership of her party. She'd become Prime Minister, she'd killed Moreau, and she was in the midst of constructing a pretty effective new government.

Surely it was time for her to catch a break. Surely!

*

After an intensely frustrating session with Blackpoole and Latimer – conservative old farts – Sophie had been positively looking forward to a quiet but productive session with Tara's dressmaker, but no. Apparently not. Apparently she was being forced to look at fabric and patterns while her husband-to-be had a long friendly conversation in Italian with the elegant, elusively charming modiste. How Nate had found out about the appointment he refused to divulge. She suspected Tara. In fact, she suspected Tara had never intended to come in the first place, troublesome murder or no.

Patriotic Marriage Act, Sophie thought, jabbing pins ferociously into a sample book to mark laces she liked. 

King's Royal Order, she thought, rejecting pattern after pattern.

Repopulating the country, she thought, choosing a creamy satin more or less at random, and wondering what her babies would look like, and wondering even more intensely what the process of making them would feel like.

She already knew that he snored in bed, and was so heavy that she found herself rolling down into the bed's dip, against his back, in the night. 

“What's wrong with me?” he asked, escorting her out of the dressmaker's after an exhausting few hours. “You might as well answer me, I'm not going to stop asking. Is it because of my birth?”

There was that really light touch to his voice. _I don't care,_ it said, _I'm impervious to the world_ … For the first time she wondered if it was defensive mechanism. She remembered that peculiar moment of vulnerability, last night. Her hand was tucked through his arm, and his muscles felt … stiff.

“Your birth?” she echoed, flustered, trying to gather her thoughts.

“My father was hung at the Tyburn gallows for his illegal moneylending and laundering.”

“I know. I read your file, before we went to France. Your birth doesn't trouble me.” Sophie was so aristocratic that (the self-awareness born of maturity had helped her realise this) she'd become incredibly egalitarian. So used to privilege, she wasn't afraid of her own position, and was able to consider the rest of humanity in terms of merit. “Anyway, if I was worried about rank, you _are_ the Duke of Ireland, now.”

“Then is it that I've been married before? That I've been - ” (a brief hesitation) “a father?”

Margaret Ford, nee Collins, Sophie thought. An artist of minor fame, who'd given Nate a son, Samuel. Travelling by ship from Edinburgh to London to join Nate just after he'd become a spy for Tara's department, a wild storm had wrecked them on the French coast. Details were scanty, but reports had indicated all the ship's occupants had been bitten and turned. After Damien Napoleon Moreau's destruction, all vampires he'd created, and all vampires they'd created, and so forth, had died … 

Sophie wondered if Nate had ever looked for two particular bodies – before the King had made him Duke of Ireland, he'd made one trip for Tara across to the abandoned continent – then pushed that thought aside.

“Your … prior family … doesn't trouble me, either,” she said slowly. The muscles beneath her hand were even stiffer now. She came to a halt in the street, Eliot hovering a few paces behind, the sun shining down warmly. Her irritation was suddenly uncoiling. She'd pleaded with him to be honest with her, and she thought he had been, in a way: she should return the favour.

“I suppose I forgot the law applied to me,” she said, the words coming painfully. “I am happy with my freedom, I don't want a husband. Especially not a, a, a slippery and insubordinate alcoholic.”

He was looking at her with steady eyes, all joking and cleverness gone from his eyes. “I … do find it hard not to be … slippery, as you call it.” She thought he was speaking as painfully as her. “But do you know … I don't think I'd ever be insubordinate with you.”

“Excuse me!” she snorted. “Every action of yours in France - “

“We were playing parts. This is real. I respect and admire you … a very great deal.” And while she was struggling to wrap her mind around those words, he added, “I can't do anything about the alcoholism. I did try, once, but … I'm not a good person, sober. But I am not as heavy a drinker as once I was. Ever since France, I've been working on it.”

“Really?”

“I just need a little. I promise. To lubricate my ability to interact with the world.” He gave a bitter laugh.

This wasn't happening. She wasn't feeling compassionate to Nathan Ford, she wasn't feeling tender, she wasn't feeling the urge to confide in him about how laudanum had become her only recourse to sleep in these last months … 

She discovered she was clinging tightly to his arm. Quickly she uncurled her fingers. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't.”

“You've surprised me.”

“Sorry.”

How long had it been since she'd really had time to think, in peace? She wanted months to digest this one conversation with Nate. She'd been running to keep up with herself for years, as she managed a fragile drained country, as she sent researchers out across the world to discover by what ritual Moreau could be destroyed and vampirism once more eradicated from the world. (Where Moreau had come by it, nobody knew, and that was something that could make Sophie jolt awake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the soporific effects of laudanum be damned.)

“Will you come with me to a wedding this evening?” she said suddenly.

“Of course.”

He didn't ask whose. _I respect and admire you ... a very great deal._ That's what he'd said yesterday. Apparently, he also trusted her.

“Where do you stay, while in London? I'll pick you up at six o'clock.”

He told her his hotel, and she and Eliot got into her carriage and went away. She didn't look back, to see if he watched her depart.


	3. Chapter 3

Parker looked like a goddess or at least a Valkyrie in a wedding dress covered in more diamonds than Sophie had ever before seen in one place. Alec was staring at her like one enchanted. “Isn't she perfect, Duchess?” he said. “I'm going to cry. She tried to pick my pocket. It was true love ever after. We're going to have the most beautiful kids.”

There was more in that style. Sophie listened, smiling, and looked around the small salon – Alec had hired a room at a local shabby-genteel hotel, for after the church ceremony – at the other guests. Alec had produced two elderly great-aunts, one of whom who had spent the event so far quoting from the Bible she carried, while the other kept up a stream of crude advice about matrimony and associated events. Parker had produced a very suave great-uncle who was getting on brilliantly with a laughing Tara, while Eliot glowered at her side. (Sophie was quite interested to see what would happen once Mrs and Mr Eliot were living in Carlisle House together as equals. She had a feeling that Tara might be getting more than she bargained for.) There was a scattering of employees from the Prime Minister's Office and the Special Affairs Office. Sir James Sterling had brought his doted-upon daughter Olivia, and his new fiancee, a brown-haired girl called Miss Milbank: Sir James was ogling Parker while Olivia and Miss Milbank (of much the same age) were talking a mile a minute.

And of course there was Nate.

Sophie had been aware of Nate all evening. He'd drunk a bit more wine than anyone else, but not as much as Sophie had feared, and he was making kind conversation with Alec's great-aunts. Sophie, yielding to impulse, went to help him.

“When are you two getting married?” Miss Hardison the Elder asked after a few pleasantries about the weather, in the loud voice of the hard of hearing.

“What do you think, Sophie?” Nate grinned up at her from his seat. “Tomorrow? The day after? We're going to honeymoon in Ireland. A lovely isolated honeymoon spot! Only a hundred thousand people left in the Emerald Isle, and so much grass … You'll love it, Sophie.”

In France her cover name had been Charlotte … When had she given him permission to call her “Sophie”? She had never, that was when. “I don't have time for a honeymoon,” she said, on her dignity. “I have a country to run.”

“I have a former country to run.” 

“No, you don't, you handed over control to that priest friend of yours.”

“Father Paul,” Nate nodded. “Also his assistant Jack Hurley. Great fellows. Doing a good job.”

“What ARE you doing now, actually?” she asked curiously. “Lounging around London at a loose end?”

His grin turned … warmer. “I heard that a certain position of husband was available. I think I'd be a good one. You need someone to manage your life, while you manage Great Britain.”

It was such a good assessment of the situation that Sophie turned and walked away without another word to the Misses Hardison. A breach of etiquette that Nate took her to task for later, when he somehow inveigled his way into her carriage and was conveyed back with her to 10 Downing Street.

“I think they'll make a good couple,” he said, as she took him to her library, and Eliot bowed and left to check on the perimeter patrol guards.

“Alec and Parker? I hope so. I don't know her yet. He's so much in love.”

“He's pretty obvious about it. I wasn't sure they'd stop kissing, at the altar. Five minutes, was it?”

She laughed, and poured them both a whiskey, and then sat in an armchair. Her body, apparently more comfortable with Nate's presence than her mind, curled up casually, like Tara might have. Oh, she was tired. Nate flung himself down, equally casually, in the opposite chair. “So. When _will_ we get married?” he asked, loosening his (already messy) cravat.

“The Act requires weddings to take place within three weeks of engagement.”

“Are we engaged?”

“The King ordered us … “

“I never asked you.” Why did her heart do something muddled-feeling in her chest when he grinned? “Yet.”

She had a sudden vision of him on his knees. Now her stomach was doing something muddled-feeling. “I haven't asked _you_ ,” she countered, striving for control. “We live in a changed world now, with women in power … “

“Then ask me.” 

Oh dear, it was his serious, vulnerable face, peeking out briefly. Her hands were clamped tight around her glass. How did one propose to a man for whom one had TERRIBLY confused feelings? Pretending to love Moreau, making Moreau love her - that had been infinitely easier.

“Will you marry me?” she said, in a rush, looking at the whiskey. Probably a bad idea to take even a sip, she felt confused enough already.

“Do you really want me?”

“Answer the damn question, Nate!”

“You first.”

She looked everywhere but him, until she'd run out of things to look at, and ended up impaled on the end of his gaze. “I told you yesterday … “

“And I told you what I can and can't change about myself. What do you think?”

“Why are you asking? We don't have a choice!”

He finished his drink, shrugging. “I'll run away to America if you don't want to marry me, so you aren't forced to imprison yourself for disobeying your law … ”

It was the absurdly, ridiculously romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. He'd emigrate, abandon everything his meteoric rise had brought him, just for her? She winked away tears, and thought “sod it”, and swallowed her whiskey in one gulp. After she'd gasped away the burning, she began to speak. “I don't want to like you but I do. You madden me but you entertain me, too. However flaky you can sometimes seem, you were there for me, in France, when it mattered the most. I respect your intelligence, and – most of the time – your judgement. I didn't really want to marry and I had long ago given up on the idea of parenthood, but … I think I'd rather it be you, than anyone else.”

“Yes,” he said.

That didn't seem the right way of responding to what she'd said. She frowned at him, lips parting to frame a question – didn't he mind that she hadn't declared passionate love? 

“Yes, I'll marry you,” he clarified. 

“Oh,” she said. “Good. Good! I hope you're skilled at managing a household, because I'm sure my current butler is cheating me on wine beyond what's normal.”

“No one cheats _me_ on wine. You'll have the best run household in London,” he promised. His nicest smile was on his face. 

“That's insufficient,” she teased.

“In England. In Great Britain. In the world.”

She smiled, relaxing for the first time in … oh, ages. “I do believe I will.”

He stood, wobbled, came to stand before her. “How about a kiss to seal the deal?” he said softly, his eyes fixed on her mouth, his words a little blurry with drink.

Heart beating fast, she stood to reach for him, just as his eyes rolled back and he fell over.

“Nate? _Nate_!” She fell to her knees, patting his chest urgently. “Oh God - “ She raised her head to shout for Eliot, the butler, anybody – but her world was spinning and she was falling too, collapsing across his immobile form like all the bones had been stripped from her body. Her mouth wasn't working. But she could hear his heart beating in her ear, that was good, that was good … 

_The whiskey_ , was her last thought. _It must have been the whiskey._


	4. Chapter 4

She woke with an aching head, lying on a stone floor. It was bitterly cold. Her eyes hurt, when she opened them. “Nate?” she croaked.

This wasn't Downing Street. Her fuzzy vision resolved, slowly, showing her a large and empty stone room. A large fireplace was filled with unlit logs, and there were windows covered with heavy dusty curtains. A single branch of candles set on the floor beside her provided illumination.

“Wakey-wakey,” someone said, and feet strolled into her vision. She dragged her gaze up – legs, torso, head – oh, no.

“Victor Dubenich,” she whispered.

“Hello, bitch.” He looked terrible, half the weight she remembered him at, hair gone white, a living ghost of the confident man who'd been Moreau's right hand. There was a mad twist to his expression.

“You killed the man in Portsmouth - ?”

“I thought I could manage without blood,” he said, pacing restlessly around her. She tried to sit up. God, her body hurt. Where was Nate? Had he been left behind? Where was this? “But I couldn't, I couldn't.”

He wasn't a vampire. He didn't need blood physically. “So you killed a man to feed your addiction.” She rapidly inventoried herself: bruised but physically functional, wearing all the usual garments, nice lethally sharp hairpins, a blade tucked down her corset …

“I wanted to be a vampire, you know. But Moreau explained it to me, vampires always need human servants, to manage the world during daylight – I was as powerful as him in the day. I! Victor Dubenich! From what depths I have risen!”

There was a door to her right, with a heavy bolt across it. The bolt she could probably reach, but she didn't much fancy her chances of getting within touching distance before he could knock her down.

“Are you seeking asylum in Great Britain, Mr Dubenich?” She levered herself to her feet, slowly, so as not to startle him.

“No, I'm here to destroy you. I've been putting poison and drugs in your food for _weeks_ ,” he added discontentedly. “But I can't tamper with everything and you eat so damn little.”

“Poison and drugs?”

“Leave it in the hand of God. Eat the poison, you're dead, eat the drugs, I'll come collect you.”

In her food … “Are the rest of my household all right?”

“Yes, yes, I don't care about them.” He was fiddled with something in his pocket – she couldn't tell what. Pretending to stretch her legs, she took a few steps towards the door. “I was surprised to find Nathan Ford with you – rumour says he helped you destroy my master – but I couldn't carry you both and he seemed in a bad way, don't think he was reacting well to the drug.”

She swallowed, pushing her worry down into a box to be experienced later. “He didn't do anything. It was all me.” How long had she been gone? She had to keep him talking, she feared it was a gun he was fiddling with. What did a man like him want - ? Praise, probably, most people did. “I'm impressed you've survived so long, Mr Dubenich.”

“It's Lord Dubenich! Moreau gave me a title!” Perhaps dislodged by his shouting, a shower of soot fell down the chimney onto the unlit logs.

Damn, she was rattled, to have forgotten that. She curved her lips politely. “I'm sorry, my lord. I'm still a little … dopey.” _That's right, my tiny staggers towards the door are just because I'm unsteady..._ “You must have been so clever to sneak into Great Britain without being noticed.”

“I was,” he nodded. “That door's locked.”

Damn, double damn, triple damn. Sophie gave him a brilliant smile. “I'm just flexing my legs. Stiff, you know, that drug of yours was very effective.”

He started telling her what it was called and where he'd procured it, but Sophie's attention was caught by something behind him – not more soot, but a long blonde plait in the fireplace. A head. An upside-down head ...

 _Parker_.

Who winked at Sophie, and then vanished back up the chimney, and Sophie briefly doubted her own sanity.

“For a time I considered the theory that you might be the Antichrist,” Dubenich was saying, and that nicely restored Sophie's faith in herself.

Right, she thought. However it had happened, if Parker knew where she was, then so did Hardison, Tara, Eliot, and shortly the entire apparatus of the British Government. They also probably had charge of Nate. Help was at hand, rescue was possibly imminent, she just had to keep Dubenich calm. And not get shot, or stabbed.

“You were Moreau's best servant,” she said seriously, straightening her shoulders. Her dress was dusty but it still showed a nice amount of cleavage.

“I was. I was. And you - “

“I was so afraid.” She layered pathetic femininity into her voice. “Of what he'd do to my country.”

“It was very, very wicked of you to kill him.”

“I think I realise that now. You speak so well of him.” God, she was being obvious, but he was so unbalanced he was lapping it up.

“He was the best and kindest man. He understood that only the fittest could live freely in this world, and that all others should be governed for their own happiness. Not enough people realise this. Vampirism is the natural next stage of the development of mankind. Did not Jesus make the apostles drink his blood - ?” Dubenich was sweating, pacing even faster. “I have to sow the seed again. I thought to kill you at first, and sow the seed in your king – but then I thought, no, nothing could be sweeter revenge than for you to take up Moreau's mantle, with me at your side - “

Someone knocked.

“ _Sow the seed_?” Sophie whispered, the world narrowing to Dubenich. Her blood turned to ice. “What do you mean?” What was in his pocket?

Dubenich was striding to the door, producing a gun from under his jacket. “Who's there?” he shouted.

“Nate Ford.”

 _Oh, you idiot_.

Dubenich laughed, peering through a spyhole. “Alone! Well, why not - ! Come in, come in … ” He opened the bolt, Sophie dashed up behind him and -

He hit her with the barrel of the gun and her jaw burst into jabs of pain as she fell over. Through blurry eyes she saw Nate stroll in. There was a bruise on the side of his face, probably from when he'd fallen over, and his clothes from the wedding were more rumpled than usual - but he walked steadily and looked completely at ease.

He bent and gave her a casual hand up while Dubenich was locking the door again. “All right there, Sophie?” he said.

“He can be your first feed, bitch,” said Dubenich happily.

“You're actually planning to turn me into a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“How?” asked Nate, his hand still holding hers lightly.

Dubenich finally produced something from his pocket. A small vial, holding something powdery in a dark colour that might, once, have been red …

“Moreau's,” said Sophie.

“He gave it to me as a reward for my good service,” said Dubenich proudly. And does that mean, Sophie wondered with dread, that other of Moreau's ex-servants are also wandering around with these? She was going to have to have a long discussion with Tara about this when she got out.

If she got out.

“Is it actually possible?” she inquired, returning Nate's suddenly tightened grip. “To, ah, turn someone from blood that's, ah, dead?”

“My master's blood could never die.”

 _Even though he did_?

As Dubenich approached her, she ducked unashamedly behind the reassuring bulk of Nate's body. What was Parker up to? How had Nate got here? They needed help! She had a terrible vision of herself as a vampire, changed entirely, of everything they'd fought for collapsing, the country imploding … 

“It won't hurt,” crooned Dubenich. “Just one swallow, and you won't be the Antichrist anymore, won't that be nice, won't you feel better – get out of my way, you - “ He thrust the gun fiercely at Nate.

“Not happening,” said Nate. Sophie cast around for anything to use as a weapon. Could she get to the logs in the fireplace - ?

A great hiss and the room suddenly became brilliantly white as part of the ceiling fell away in a shower of flames. Sophie knew instantly that Alec Hardison was nearby with his bombs and his contraptions. “Duck!” she screamed at Nate, dragging him down to the floor.

With the falling ceiling came a slender blonde figure, flying – no, not flying, swinging on a rope – her arc intersected perfectly with Dubenich, still turning in shock. She threw some sparkling powder in his eyes (he screamed) then nipped the vial right out of his hand before the rope carried her to the other end of the room. A moment later the door exploded inwards, bolt ripped off by pure muscle power, and Eliot Spencer charged through like a minotaur, and smacked Dubenich off his feet, knocked the gun away, pinioned him.

Sophie and Nate stayed huddling together for a long minute while plaster and small bits of wood and stone finished coating them. “You planned this, didn't you?” she breathed.

“Rather hurriedly, but it seems to have worked.” Nate coughed out some dust, then helped her rise. 

Alec stuck his head over the edge of the hole in the ceiling. “Everyone all right down there?”

“Just fine!” roared Eliot, who was putting in a good impression of wrestling a hyena: Dubenich was fighting and screaming. Nate went over and sat on his back.

“Here, have this.” Parker tossed the vial to Sophie, who caught it with a stifled squeak. “This is what was in pocket, right? I thought it might be important.”

“Good thinking,” breathed Sophie, feeling like she was holding one of Alec's fizzy bombs. “Very good thinking, Parker.”

“I sent a message for some police officers to come and help,” Nate offered, now shoving his cravat into Dubenich's foaming mouth. “I've got a friend, Sergeant Bonanno. Good man. Knows when not to ask questions.”

Sophie had a question. “How did you know where I was?”

“When I found him unconscious on the floor, I raised the alarm,” grunted Eliot Spencer, still struggling to hold down the frenzied Dubenich.

“And a scullery maid remembered seeing an unfamiliar tradesman carrying a sack out of the kitchen.”

“I was carried in a _sack_?” 

“ _That's_ the thing bothering you most?” inquired Nate. 

“A _sack_.”

“It wasn't hard to trace the hired carriage that a bootboy remembered seeing in the road outside, because I'm amazing like that … “ called Alec.

“Thank you,” Sophie said. “Really. Thank you.” She looked down at the vial in her grip – was Dubenich right? Would it have turned her? “This is going straight into Tara's really special vault,” she murmured.

Nate reached out and stroked her shoulder. “She's on her way now, I hope. Later we'll throw it in the sea. That should neutralise it.”

Alec had got Parker in, Parker had blinded Dubenich, Eliot Spencer had taken Dubenich down. Nate had masterminded it. He could have stayed safely out of the fray, but instead he'd joined her while the others put the last pieces into place.

She leaned into his touch. And smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

Their marriage three weeks later was in a rather larger venue, and rather more well-attended, than Alec and Parker's. The King came, and Lady Conyngham, and most of the government and high society. Sophie's dress was excellent: Tara's taste in dressmakers had been spot-on. Their kiss at the altar was rather chaste, although it still sent rushes of sparks through Sophie's body just like champagne. And their honeymoon venue was one of Sophie's favourite properties, a small rural country house on the Sussex coastline that had belonged to her mother. 

Her new bodyguards, Mr Taggert and Mr McSweeten, were sadly not quite up to Eliot's standards, individually or jointly. It took several minutes of arguing before Sophie convinced them to allow her and Nate to walk unattended on the beach below Brightwell House, although she suspected they were still lurking inefficiently in the dunes.

She could have made a ceremony of it, said something meaningful, but in the end she simply uncorked the vial and stuck it down in the first wave she could reach, lapping at the sand. The dark dust inside turned into a scarlet hissing mud, and she lifted her arm and hurled the vial out. “There,” she said, with profound satisfaction. 

“Let's hope all the other ex-servants didn't have 'em too,” Nate said dryly.

“That,” said Sophie, “is definitely Tara's problem for the next week.” Tara was Acting Prime Minister for Sophie's honeymoon. Hopefully she wouldn't either alienate or seduce the King.

They walked along the beach for a little way. Nate was barefooted, because he did not care about appearances at all and also apparently found sand pleasant under his feet. Sophie, on the other hand, was more than pleased with her new yellow sandals. The sun was warm and golden in the west, the air was fresh and mild, and the gentle sound of the waves was almost hypnotic.

“How many houses do you have?” Nate asked suddenly, and Sophie shook her thoughts back to alertness.

“Sixteen. Haven't you read my file?”

“Tara keeps it sealed, for national security.”

“That,” said Sophie severely, “was not an answer to my question.”

He grinned and said nothing more

Later, back at Brightwell House, they ate dinner and then went straight to bed. Sophie left him in the sitting-room adjoining their bedroom and changed into another of L'Italiana's creations, a nightgown of foaming lace and silk. Her hair lay around her shoulders in curls like living mahogany, and in the shadows of a candle- and fire-lit room, she definitely didn't look a day over thirty five.

She found Nate sprawled in an armchair, empty glass in hand, staring at the fire. “I think Maggie would have liked you, you know.” His voice was low. “And Sam.”

“That is a great compliment,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

He turned, and looked at her, at first pensively, and then with dawning interest. She crossed to him. He abandoned his glass, and lifted his hands to hold her waist. His touch was blazing, and then he bent forward and kissed her stomach, just above the navel. She trembled.

“Thank you for choosing me,” he said, into silk and skin. He slid off the chair, to his knees. “I fell in love with you when you kicked that first working-class vampire in the chest and told him to take you to Moreau or you'd stake him for daring to touch your pure, vampiric, aristocratic self. You're something I never thought to have again.”

His untidy curls were brushing the underside of her breasts. Gently she stroked his head, trembling both with blossoming desire and emotion. “I don't really know what it feels like to love,” she said hoarsely. “I'm very, very good at making people do what I want, but I have never had many opportunities to do what I want. I feel something for you, something important and – it frightens me, but I don't know what to call it.”

“That's enough,” he said. “That's more than I ever hoped for from you, and we've not even been married for a day.” His head was still buried in her middle, his words buzzing against her sensitive stomach.

She tugged his shoulders. “Stand up.” He obeyed. They were very nearly of a height. She leaned forward and kissed him. He tasted of whiskey, and he felt so comfortable and familiar that they might have been kissing already for years, yet also so wonderful and exciting that she melted and burned against him … She held him, he held her, and peace and passion flowed through her blood. When his hands cupped her breasts, it felt natural, like their bodies had been made for each other. Her breathing quickened, deepened. She'd meant to be slow and gentle on this first night, but sudden impatience roared through her. There would be other nights. She scrabbled at his shirt, his trousers, finding what she wanted. He gasped, and returned the favour, dragging up the skirt of her nightgown until his hand cupped her mound. “Sophie,” he breathed against her mouth.

She pushed him down onto the rug, and straddled him, bending over so as never to stop kissing him. She rose and then sank, deliberately, carefully, until they were both gasping with sensation. They made urgent love there on the rug in front of the fading fire, until at last their climaxes came and they collapsed together, sated, sleepy. “We should go to bed,” Nate said drowsily in her ear, wrapping his arms around her. “It's going to get cold here.”

“You'll have to carry me.”

“Fat chance.”

She giggled, curling against him, and then reached out an arm and pulled a bear-pelt (killed by her great-uncle) off the nearest sofa and cast it across them.

Then, for the first time in years, she slept without laudanum. She didn't dream of Moreau. She didn't dream of all the work that would await her return from honeymoon. She didn't dream of the dead.

She dreamed of the future, and Nate was in it.


End file.
